Raoden stumbled backward in horror. The lead demon jumped at a soldier, dodging the man’s thrust with inhuman speed, then impaling him on a wicked-looking sword.
Raoden froze. He recognized this demon. Though its body was twisted like the rest, its face was familiar. It was Dilaf, the Fjordell priest.
Dilaf smiled, eyeing Raoden. Raoden scrambled for one of the fallen soldiers’ weapons, but he was too slow. Dilaf darted across the room, moving like the wind, and brought his fist up into Raoden’s stomach. Raoden gasped in pain and dropped to the floor.
“Bring him,” the creature ordered.
_______
“Make certain you deliver these tonight,” Sarene said, pulling the lid closed on the final box of supplies.
The beggar nodded, casting an apprehensive glance toward the wall of Elantris, which stood only a few feet away.
“You needn’t be so afraid, Hoid,” Sarene said. “You have a new king now. Things are going to change in Arelon.”
Hoid shrugged. Despite Telrii’s death, the beggar refused to meet with Sarene during the day. Hoid’s people had spent ten years fearing Iadon and his farms; they weren’t used to acting without the enveloping presence of night, no matter how legal their intentions. Sarene would have used someone else to make the delivery, but Hoid and his men already knew how and where to deposit the boxes. Besides, she would rather the populace of Arelon not discover what was in this particular shipment.
“These boxes are more heavy than the ones before, my lady,” Hoid noted astutely. There was a reason he had managed to survive a decade on the streets of Kae without being caught.
“What the boxes contain is none of your business,” Sarene replied, handing him a pouch of coins.
Hoid nodded, his face hidden in the darkness of his hood. Sarene had never seen his face, but she assumed from his voice that he was an older man.
She shivered in the night, eager to get back to Kiin’s house. The wedding was set for the next day, and Sarene had a hard time containing her excitement. Despite all the trials, difficulties, and setbacks, there was finally an honorable king on the throne of Arelon. And, after years of waiting, Sarene had finally found someone her heart was as willing to marry as her mind.
“Goodnight then, my lady,” Hoid said, following the train of beggars who slowly climbed the stairs of Elantris’s wall.
Sarene nodded to Ashe. “Go tell them that a shipment is coming, Ashe.”
“Yes, my lady,” Ashe said with a bob, and hovered away to follow Hoid’s beggars.
Pulling her shawl close, Sarene climbed into her carriage and ordered the coachman home. Hopefully, Galladon and Karata would understand why she had sent crates full of swords and bows. Raoden’s apprehensive warning earlier in the day had disturbed Sarene immensely. She kept worrying about New Elantris and its bright, accepting people, and so she had finally decided to do something.
Sarene sighed as the carriage rolled down the quiet street. The weapons probably wouldn’t help much; the people of New Elantris were not soldiers. But it had been something she could do.
The carriage pulled to a sudden stop. Sarene frowned, opening her mouth to call out a question to the coachman. Then she paused. Now that the rumbling of the coach had ceased, she could hear something. Something that sounded faintly like … screams. She smelled the smoke a second later. Sarene pulled back the carriage curtain, poking her head out the window. She found a scene as if from hell itself.
The carriage stood at an intersection. Three streets were calm, but the one directly before her blazed red. Fires billowed from homes, and corpses slumped on the cobblestones. Men and women ran screaming through the streets; others simply stood in dazed shock. Among them stalked shirtless warriors, their skin glistening with sweat in the firelight.
It was a slaughter. The strange warriors killed with dispassion, cutting down man, woman, and child alike with casual swipes of their swords. Sarene watched for a stunned moment before screaming at the coachman to turn them around. The man shook himself from his stupor, whipping at the horses to turn.
Sarene’s yell died in her throat as one of the shirtless warriors noticed the carriage. The soldier dashed toward them as the carriage began to turn. Sarene yelled a warning to the coachman too late. The strange warrior leapt, sailing an incredible distance to land on the carriage horse’s back. The soldier crouched lithely upon the beast’s flesh, and for the first time Sarene could see the inhuman twisting of his body, the chilling fire in his eyes.
Another short hop took the soldier to the top of the carriage. The vehicle rocked slightly, and the coachman screamed.
Sarene threw open her door and stumbled out. She scrambled across the cobblestones, shoes thrown from her feet in haste. Just up the street, away from the fires, lay Kiin’s house. If she could only—
The coachman’s body slammed into a building beside her, then slumped to the ground. Sarene screamed, lurching back, nearly tripping. To the side, the demonic creature was a dark silhouette in the firelight as he dropped from the carriage top, prowling slowly along the street toward her. Though his motions seemed casual, he moved with a lithe alertness. Sarene could see the unnatural shadows and pockets beneath his skin, as if his skeleton had been twisted and carved.
Pushing down another scream, Sarene scrambled away, running up the hill toward her uncle’s house. Not fast enough. Catching her would barely be a game for this monster; she could hear his footsteps behind. Approaching. Faster and faster. She could see the lights up ahead, but—
Something grabbed her ankle. Sarene jerked as the creature yanked with incredible strength, twisting her leg and spinning her so she smashed to the ground on her side. Sarene rolled onto her back, gasping at the pain.
The twisted figure loomed above her. She could hear it whispering in a foreign tongue. Fjordell.
Something dark and massive slammed into the monster, throwing it backward. Two figures struggled in the darkness. The creature howled, but the newcomer bellowed louder. Dazed, Sarene pushed herself up, watching the shadowed forms. An approaching light soon unmasked them. The shirtless warrior was expected. The other was not.
“Kiin?” Sarene asked.
Her uncle held an enormous axe, large as a man’s chest. He smashed it into the creature’s back as it wiggled across the stones, reaching for its sword. The creature cursed in pain, though the axe didn’t penetrate far. Kiin wrenched the weapon free, then raised it in a mighty swing and brought it down directly into the demon’s face.
The creature grunted, but did not stop moving. Neither did Kiin. He swung again and again, hacking at the monster’s head with repeated swings, howling Teoish battle cries in his scratchy voice. Bones crunched, and finally the creature stopped moving.
Something touched her arm, and Sarene yelped. Lukel, kneeling beside her, raised his lantern. “Come on!” he urged, grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet.
They dashed the short distance to Kiin’s mansion, her uncle lumbering behind. They pushed through the doors, then stumbled into the kitchen, where a frightened group waited for their return. Daora rushed to her husband as Lukel slammed the door.
“Lukel, collapse the entryway,” Kiin ordered.
Lukel complied, throwing the lever Sarene had always mistaken for a torch-holder. A second later there was a mighty crash from the entryway, and dust poured through the kitchen door.
Sarene plopped into a chair, staring at the quiet room. Shuden was there, and he had managed to find Torena, who sniffled quietly in his arms. Daorn, Kaise, and Adien huddled in a corner with Lukel’s wife. Raoden was not there.
“What … what are those things?” Sarene asked, looking up at Lukel.
Her cousin shook his head. “I don’t know. The attack started just a short time ago, and we were worried that something had happened to you. We were outside waiting—it’s a good thing Father spotted your coach down at the bottom of the hill.”
Sarene nodded, still a bit numb.
&nbs
p; Kiin stood with his wife in one arm, looking down at the bloodied axe in his other hand. “I swore I would never take up this cursed weapon again,” he whispered.
Daora patted her husband’s shoulder. Despite her shock, Sarene realized that she recognized the axe. It used to hang on the kitchen wall, with other mementoes of Kiin’s travels. Yet he had held the weapon with obvious skill. The axe wasn’t a simple ornament as she had assumed. Looking closely, she could see nicks and scratches on its blade. Etched into the steel was a heraldic Aon—Aon Reo. The character meant “punishment.”
“Why would a merchant need to know how to use one of those?” Sarene asked, almost to herself.
Kiin shook his head. “A merchant wouldn’t.”
Sarene knew of only one person who had used Aon Reo, though he was more a myth than a man. “They called him Dreok,” she whispered. “The pirate Crushthroat.”
“That was always a mistake,” Kiin said in his raspy voice. “The true name was Dreok Crushedthroat.”
“He tried to steal the throne of Teod from my father,” Sarene said, looking up into Kiin’s eyes.
“No,” Kiin said, turning away. “Dreok wanted what belonged to him. He tried to take back the throne that his younger brother, Eventeo, stole—stole right from under Dreok’s nose while he foolishly wasted his life on pleasure trips.”
Dilaf strode into the chapel, his face bright with satisfaction. One of his monks dropped an unconscious Raoden next to the far wall.
“This, my dear Hrathen,” Dilaf said, “is how you deal with heretics.”
Appalled, Hrathen turned away from the window. “You are massacring the entire town, Dilaf! What is the point? Where is the glory for Jaddeth in this?”
“Do not question me!” Dilaf screamed, his eyes blazing. His raging zeal had finally been released.
Hrathen turned away. Of all the titles in the hierarchy of the Derethi Church, only two outranked gyorn: Wyrn, and gragdet—leader of a monastery. The gragdets were usually discounted, for they generally had little to do with the world outside their monasteries. Apparently that had changed.
Hrathen ran his eyes over Dilaf’s bare chest, seeing the twisted patterns that had always been hiding beneath the arteth’s robes. Hrathen’s stomach turned at the lines and curves that ran like varicose veins beneath the man’s skin. It was bone, Hrathen knew—hard, unyielding bone. Dilaf wasn’t just a monk, and he wasn’t just a gragdet; he was monk and gragdet of the most infamous monastery in Fjorden. Dakhor. The Order of Bone.
The prayers and incantations used to create Dakhor monks were secret; even the gyorns didn’t know them. A few months after a boy was initiated into the Dakhor order, his bones started to grow and twist, adopting strange patterns like those visible beneath Dilaf’s skin. Somehow, each of those patterns gave its bearer abilities, such as heightened speed and strength.
Horrible images washed through Hrathen’s mind. Images of priests chanting over him; memories of an awesome pain rising within, the pain of his bones reshaping. It had been too much—the darkness, the screams, the torment. Hrathen had left after just a few months to join a different monastery.
He had not left behind the nightmares or memories, however. One did not easily forget Dakhor.
“So you were a Fjordell all this time?” Hrathen whispered.
“You never suspected, did you?” Dilaf asked with a smile. “You should have realized. It is far easier to imitate an Arelene speaking Fjordell than it is for an actual man of Arelon to learn the Holy Language so perfectly.”
Hrathen bowed his head. His duty was clear; Dilaf was his superior. He didn’t know how long Dilaf had been in Arelon—the Dakhor lived unusually long lives—but it was obvious that Dilaf had been planning Kae’s destruction for a very long time.
“Oh, Hrathen,” Dilaf said with a laugh. “You never did understand your place, did you? Wyrn didn’t send you to convert Arelon.”
Hrathen looked up with surprise. He had a letter from Wyrn that said otherwise.
“Yes, I know of your orders, Gyorn,” Dilaf said. “Reread that letter sometime. Wyrn didn’t send you to Arelon to convert, he sent you to inform the people of their impending destruction. You were a distraction, something for people like Eventeo to focus their attention on while I prepared for the city’s invasion. You did your job perfectly.”
“Distraction …?” Hrathen asked. “But the people …”
“Were never to be saved, Hrathen,” Dilaf said. “Wyrn always intended to destroy Arelon. He needs such a victory to insure his grip on the other countries—despite your efforts, our control of Duladel is tenuous. The world needs to know what happens to those who blaspheme against Jaddeth.”
“These people don’t blaspheme,” Hrathen said, feeling his anger rise. “They don’t even know Jaddeth! How can we expect them to be righteous if we don’t give them a chance to convert!”
Dilaf’s hand shot out, slapping Hrathen across the face. Hrathen stumbled back, cheek flaring with pain from the blow—delivered by an unnaturally strong hand, hardened by extra bones.
“You forget to whom you speak, Gyorn,” Dilaf snapped. “This people is unholy. Only Arelenes and Teos can become Elantrians. If we destroy them, then we end the heresy of Elantris forever!”
Hrathen ignored his throbbing cheek. With growing numbness, he finally realized how deeply Dilaf’s hatred went. “You will slaughter them all? You would murder an entire nation of people?”
“It is the only way to be certain,” Dilaf said, smiling.
CHAPTER 59
Raoden awoke to new pains. The sharpest was at the back of his head, but there were others—scratches, bruises, and cuts across his entire body. For a moment it was almost too much. Each wound stung sharply, never deadening, never weakening. Fortunately, he had spent weeks dealing with the Dor’s all-powerful attacks. Compared to those crushing monuments of agony, the regular pains of his body—no matter how severe—seemed weaker. Ironically, the very force that had nearly destroyed him now allowed him to keep insanity at bay.
Though dazed, he could feel himself being picked up and thrown onto something hard—a saddle. He lost track of time as the horse cantered, and he was forced to struggle against the darkness of insensibility. There were voices around him, but they spoke in Fjordell, which he didn’t understand.
The horse stopped. Raoden opened his eyes with a groan as hands pulled him off the beast and set him on the ground.
“Wake up, Elantrian,” said a voice speaking Aonic.
Raoden raised his head, blinking confused eyes. It was still night, and he could smell the thick scent of smoke. They were at the base of a hill—Kiin’s hill. The blockish house stood only a few yards away, but he could barely make it out. His vision swam, everything blurry.
Merciful Domi, he thought, let Sarene be safe.
“I know you can hear me, Princess,” Dilaf yelled. “Look who I have here. Let us make a deal.”
“No!” Raoden tried to say, but it came out as a croak. The blow to his head had done something to his brain. He could barely keep himself upright, let alone speak. The worst part was, he knew it would never improve.
He could not heal—now that the dizziness had come upon him, it would never leave.
“You realize that there is no dealing with him,” Kiin said quietly. They watched Dilaf and the staggering Raoden through one of Kiin’s slitlike windows.
Sarene nodded quietly, feeling chill. Raoden wasn’t doing well; he wobbled as he stood, looking disoriented in the firelight. “Merciful Domi. What have they done to him?”
“Don’t look, ’Ene,” Kiin said, turning away from the window. His enormous axe—the axe of Dreok the Pirate—stood ready in the corner.
“I can’t look away,” Sarene whispered. “I have to at least speak to him—to say goodbye.”
Kiin sighed, then nodded. “All right. Let’s go to the roof. At the first sign of bows, however, we’re locking ourselves back in.”
Sarene nodde
d solemnly, and the two climbed the steps up onto the roof. She approached the roof’s ledge, looking down at Dilaf and Raoden. If she could convince the priest to take her in exchange for Raoden, she would do it. However, she suspected that Dilaf would demand the entire household, and Sarene could never agree to such a thing. Daora and the children huddled in the basement under Lukel’s care. Sarene would not betray them, no matter whom Dilaf held hostage.
She opened her mouth to speak, knowing that her words would probably be the last Raoden ever heard.
“Go!” Dilaf ordered.
Hrathen stood by, a dismayed observer, as Sarene fell into Dilaf’s trap. The Dakhor monks sprang forward, jumping from hiding places along the base of the building. They leaped to the walls, their feet seeming to stick as they found tiny footholds between bricks and arrow slits. Several monks, already in place hanging from the back of the rooftop, swung up and cut off Sarene’s escape.
Hrathen could hear startled yells as Sarene and her companion realized their predicament. It was too late. A few moments later, a Dakhor jumped down from the rooftop, a struggling princess in his arms.
“Hrathen, get me your Seon,” Dilaf ordered.
Hrathen complied, opening the metal box and letting the ball of light float free. Hrathen hadn’t bothered asking how the monk knew about the Seon. The Dakhor were Wyrn’s favored warriors; their leader would be privy to many of his secrets.
“Seon, I wish to speak with King Eventeo,” Dilaf said.
The Seon complied. Soon its light molded into the head of an overweight man with a proud face.
“I do not know you,” Eventeo said. “Who calls for me in the middle of the night?”
“I am the man who has your daughter, King,” Dilaf said, prodding Sarene in the side. The princess yelped despite herself.